


Comfort

by crisiskris



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, M/M, Rommie doesn't understand, magog babies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 01:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13753068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crisiskris/pseuds/crisiskris
Summary: Dylan gives Harper something that he needs





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a continuation of Season 2, Episode 2, "Exit Strategies".

Dylan watched the Nietzschean stalk out of his quarters with a dark look on his face.  As if he didn’t have enough to worry about with a ship that was crippled, a baby Commonwealth that hadn’t even found its feet yet, and a giant world ship full of angry, hungry Magog on the way.  Now he had to think about what Tyr, a member of his own crew, someone he should be able to trust, damn it, might decide to do to further his own mysterious agenda.  Not that he should have ever thought, even for a moment, that Tyr could be trusted, but it still galled, maybe galled more than it should because of Gaheris, maybe struck a little too close to home because –

“Dylan? May I speak with you for a moment?”  Andromeda, polite as ever – not her avatar, but the ship itself, interrupted his rumination.  Dylan sighed.

“Is it important, Rommie?  Can it wait?”

She hesitated, deciding.  “No.  I don’t think it should wait.”

Dylan closed his eyes, drawing inward for strength.  If it couldn’t wait, it was more bad news.  And there had already been so much bad news... he took a deep breath and turned toward the nearest vid screen.  Andromeda obligingly projected her image there.  “What is it, Rommie?” Dylan asked, giving her the go ahead with a tired wave.

“I think that Harper may be suicidal.”

Her words hit him in the gut like he’d been kicked. Harper. He’d completely forgotten Harper; how could he have forgotten Harper?  “No.”  He whispered.

Rommie furrowed her brow.  “I’m fairly certain, Captain,” she said, in that tone she took on when someone tried to correct her.  “My avatar found him on the med deck earlier, pointing a gun at his stomach.  He also admitted to her that he wanted to die.”

“I believe you, Rommie,” Dylan replied, his voice heavy and sad.  “I just meant – I don’t want Harper to die.”

“Neither do I, Dylan.  He’s – unlike any engineer I’ve ever had.  Will you talk to him?”

Agitated, Dylan got to his feet and paced around his room.  “And say what?” he asked.  “That we’ll do the best we can?  That it must suck to have been brutally attacked, taken hostage by countless savage beasts, violated and left to anticipate your own painful death as it grows inside you, day after day?”

“He already knows all that, Dylan.  He told me practically the same thing when I found him trying to shoot himself.”

“What do you want me to say, Rommie?  What can I possibly say?”

Rommie’s face looked sad on the screen.  “I don’t know, Dylan.  But someone needs to say something.  No one’s talking about it, and I think that’s making it harder.”

Dylan stopped pacing, swallowing hard.  In his mind, he envisioned the past few weeks, the way that Harper smiled and laughed and made stupid, sexual comments at Beka, Trance and Rommie – the way that all of them pretended everything was normal.  Nothing was normal for the boy now.  Nothing would ever be normal again, not even if he survived it – when he survived it, Dylan corrected himself mentally, clenching his fists.  “Alright,” he said aloud.  “I’ll talk to him.  Where is he?”

“He’s in the mess hall, getting drunk. Again. He does that every night now.”

Dylan closed his eyes and choked back an exasperated sigh. How could he not have noticed that? 

“I’m on my way.”

**

Harper was indeed sitting in the mess hall, alone, in the dark, a half empty bottle of scotch in front of him.  “Hey, boss,” he intoned when Dylan walked in, his words just a little bit slurred. He looked up with heavy lids, glassy eyes betraying how much he’d drunk already.

“Are you planning to steal all my scotch, Mr. Harper?” Dylan asked, trying for levity, as he sat down.

Harper smiled mirthlessly, playing with the glass in his hands. “Doesn’t matter,” he said finally, setting the glass down and shoving away from the table, crossing his arms. “Can’t get drunk anymore anyway.  The little monsters just suck up all the alcohol. Just like they suck up all the nutrients in my food; Trance has me taking supplements on top of my supplements now.” He swallowed, the sharp smile disappearing, eyes blinking rapidly.

“Will you talk to me about it?” Dylan asked quietly. 

Harper’s eyes flicked over to him and then quickly away. “Rommie told you,” he said, his voice hard.

“She’s afraid; she cares about you.”

“She needs me, you mean.”

“That too.”

Harper shook his head. “Well, she’s the only one. No one else even acts like there’s anything going on. Beka doesn’t even talk to me anymore. Not that I blame her. I wouldn’t come around either if I was scared I might get infected.”

“Harper, you know that you’re not a danger to anyone else, don’t you?” Dylan leaned forward. 

“So not the point, boss.” Harper leaned forward too, all the way, resting his head on his hands. Without really thinking about it, Dylan stretched across the corner to stroke his hair. He could see the data port glinting in the dim light and, below that, the faint pock-mark scars left by dozens of Magog teeth as they’d bitten into his soft shoulder. Harper lay very still under his touch and Dylan realized that he couldn’t remember anyone, not even Trance, touching Harper since the attack. He was starving for contact.

“Talk to me,” Dylan suggested again, standing and slowly coming up behind Harper, laying his hands on the engineer’s shoulders. He could feel the stress and fear emanating off the younger man.

“What do you want me to say?” Harper replied, sitting up and leaning into Dylan’s touch.  Slowly, Dylan began to knead the muscles, rubbing his thumbs across the base of Harper’s neck, ignoring the raised bumps of scar after scar after scar. “You want me to say I didn’t mean it? Or that I changed my mind? I did mean it. I haven’t changed my mind. I’d rather be dead.”

“I know,” Dylan replied. “And I know you don’t want to hear me say that there’s hope. I know you can’t see it. I know you’re very, very afraid.  But Harper, I hope you understand that the reason you’re so afraid is that you don’t really want to die. You’re afraid because you really want to live.”

“I almost did it, you know,” Harper said in reply. He was sagging into Dylan’s hands now, limp, completely worn out. “I had the gun set, my finger on the trigger – I just, when Rommie walked in, I just couldn’t do that to her, you know? Not in front of her like that.”

“I’m glad,” Dylan murmured. On impulse, he leaned down and kissed the back of Harper’s neck. 

“Uh, boss?  Not that I mind, but, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know, Harper,” Dylan answered, a little embarrassed. “I’m just – comforting.”

“Kissing me is comforting?”

“It seemed appropriate.”

Harper turned around under the Captain’s hands so that he could look up into Dylan’s eyes.  “Comfort me again,” he commanded, his blue eyes intense and serious. 

“Harper –”

“Do it. I want it. Please.”  His voice was needy, desperate, compelling. Dylan leaned down and covered his mouth. Harper’s lips opened under his and, surprising himself, Dylan found his tongue questing in, exploring. The man tasted, not surprisingly, of scotch. Harper’s tongue found his, lapping, entangling him in the kiss, twisted in his chair, one hand sliding up to Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan’s hands, seemingly of their own accord, had slid up into Harper’s hair. 

Then Harper stood, never releasing Dylan from the kiss, and Dylan followed his body up, pulling Harper close and tipping his head back when he reached full height. Harper clung to him, hands fisted in his uniform jacket, making hungry little sounds against his mouth that shot straight down to Dylan’s cock.  He felt himself stiffen against Harper’s thigh. Harper responded by rubbing his thigh against it, maddeningly, until Dylan thrust him against the wall and reached down, scrabbling at Harper’s pants, desperate to know whether Harper was hard too.

He was. Dylan rubbed against him and Harper thrashed his head back, moaning. The sound was thrilling; it made Dylan feel wild, like an animal. He lowered his head and sucked on Harper’s earlobe, on his neck, grazed his teeth across the younger man’s skin...

And found himself suddenly, unceremoniously on his ass, his jaw aching, Harper standing over him wild-eyed and terrified, fists clenched. It only took a moment for Dylan to put it together. “Harper,” he said, gently, standing and backing away till he reached the table, sitting against it to bring his eyes to Harper’s level. “Harper, I’m sorry. That was my fault. I’m sorry. Harper, please look at me. I’m so sorry.”

Harper gaped at him, still completely lost, frightened, for a moment more, and then he backed away too, until his back hit the wall. He slid down it, crumpling on to the floor. “I can’t do this,” he gasped, and then the tears started, unexpected, Harper’s breath tearing out of him in gasps. He buried his face in his hands. “Dylan, I can’t do this.” Dylan fell to his knees, crawled over to the other man, engulfing him in his arms. Gently he rocked the young man back and forth, holding tight. Harper clung to him, weeping, repeating over and over, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

“Shhh...” Dylan murmured, rocking him, stroking his hair. “We will. We will find a way, together. We can. We will.” 

**

Eventually, Harper’s sobs started to slow, and then stopped. He sniffled, freeing one hand from their entanglement to wipe at his face, and took a ragged breath. “I’m good,” he whispered. “I’m good.”  He tried to move away.

“Forget it, Harper,” Dylan replied, not letting go. “You’re staying with me tonight, no matter what you say.  And it’s not about watching you. It’s about – ”

“Comfort, I got it. But, I’m tired and, uh, I drank a lot of scotch and I really need to, you know, use the facilities? Plus my leg’s kind of falling asleep.”

“Right. Sorry.” Dylan stood, lifting the other man to his feet, keeping one arm around him. “Let’s go, Mr. Harper.”

“I think you can call me Seamus,” he suggested. “Seeing as how you’ve had your tongue in my mouth and your hands on my, well, you know.”

Dylan laughed. “Can I interest you in a warm bed and some company, Seamus?” He asked. Harper smiled.

**

Later that night, Dylan lay in his bed, watching Harper sleep. When the younger man had moaned, lost in his dreams, Dylan had tried to hold him, but Harper had started thrashing as soon as he laid arms on him, yanking away with a feral look on his face and curling tight into a ball, never waking. So Dylan just lay on his side, keeping his distance – but not too far – and watched. Until he heard a polite clearing of the throat, that is. 

“What is it, Rommie?” he whispered, turning so that he could see a vid screen.

“You were supposed to talk to him, not... take him to your bed,” Rommie hissed back just as quietly.

“I know,” he said.  “But – this happened instead.  Let it be, okay, Rommie?”

“How can you take advantage of him with everything that’s going on?” she was pissed and not letting it go, but Dylan understood. Some of the more complex aspects of human irrationality had always eluded her.

“Rommie, please trust me. This is one of those things where the right thing doesn’t look like the right thing.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” she began, but then Harper rolled over and opened one eye, blearily glaring at the screen.

“Rommie, I’m fine. This is good, I like it, I’m safe and it’s not like I’m going to off myself lying in Dylan’s bed. So turn off the vid screen and let Dylan go to sleep already.” Then he rolled back, tucking his body against Dylan’s. Rommie huffed, but flashed off, leaving the room in darkness once again.

Dylan shifted so that he could snuggle against the smaller man a little more, raising his arm to drape it over Harper’s waist and then stopping, uncertain. 

“S’okay,” Harper mumbled, pulling Dylan’s arm over his body and clasping his hand.  “It’s comforting.”

“Yeah,” Dylan replied. “Yeah, it is.” He closed his eyes, nuzzling his head against Harper’s hair, and fell asleep.


End file.
